


Heart Like a Locket

by smeltster, Supergeek21



Category: Good Omens (Radio), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Relationship, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Canon Timeline, Canon Universe, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fanart, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Inner Dialogue, Inspired by Fanart, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Aziraphale and Crowley (Good Omens), POV Alternating, Pining, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Scene: The Bookshop Fire (Good Omens), Scene: The Bus Ride (Good Omens), The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29384775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smeltster/pseuds/smeltster, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Supergeek21/pseuds/Supergeek21
Summary: Aziraphale has a secret. Underneath his antique waistcoat, buttoned-up shirt, and meticulously tied bow tie he wears something else at all times. Something very dear to him.Crowley has known for years that Aziraphale wears a locket under his clothes but he’s never known what’s inside. He’s often wondered, but it’s the furthest thing from his mind as the world starts to end… until he runs into the angel’s burning bookshop and finds the trinket damaged and lying under “The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter.” The answer is the last thing he ever expected.Part of the Do It With Style Events Reverse Big Bang! Story by Supergeek21, Art by Smeltster
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 91
Kudos: 132
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang





	1. The Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the mods for organizing this event and for being so accommodating when Supergeek was going through a very hard time. 
> 
> Special thanks to [elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds/elf_on_the_shelf/works) for assisting with the title, which is inspired by Relient K's song "Flower" and to [Quefish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quefish) for beta-ing.

_ Saturday _

Crowley’s unnecessary heart was pounding in his chest as he sped out of Mayfair towards Soho. He’d gotten lucky that Aziraphale had called when he had. He had hoped the Holy Water would be enough to handle Hastur and Ligur. He’d been wrong. Had the angel not called when he had, Crowley wasn’t sure he’d have thought of using the phone line as an escape route.

_Speaking of the phone line,_ he thought, and he blindly dialed the bookshop’s number on his mobile. _Aziraphale said he knows where the Antichrist is, maybe he has a plan._

But there was no answer. The line was busy. Crowley started to get a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach as whipped around a corner at a reckless speed. If Hell had caught onto him, who was to say Aziraphale wasn’t on their radar as well?

Through the deluge of rain soaking the London streets, he saw the flashing lights of a fire truck ahead. The bad feeling got worse.

_Please no. Please no. Please no,_ he thought in a mantra, not quite praying but hoping and willing the worst not to be true with every bit of mental energy he could spare.

The words vanished from his mind the moment the bookshop came into sight: flames billowing out the windows and licking up the walls.

Firemen were swarming the scene while police attempted to keep passersby out of harm’s way.

Crowley paid them no mind, screeching the car to a halt and leaping from it towards the shop as if on autopilot.

“Are you the owner of this establishment, Sir?” a firefighter ran up to him and asked.

“Do I look like I run a bookshop?!” Crowley spat at him, not even bothering to slow down as he continued his single-minded march towards the inferno.

The human began to answer but Crowley wasn’t listening. He stormed up to the doors which opened magically before him and hurried into the shop, blocking the humans from following with a casual click of his fingers.

Crowley felt numb with horror as he took in the scene around him. The familiar walls and furniture of the shop were engulfed in flame and everything was cast in a Hellish red glow.

Crowley didn’t spare a thought for the source of the fire—Hell, Heaven, or Earth—nor for Aziraphale’s precious books, he had only one goal as he rushed around the inferno consuming the building he had long thought of as a second home: find his angel.

“Aziraphale!” he called. “Aziraphale where the Heaven are you, you idiot! I can’t find you!”

He was starting to panic. He let out a strangled scream. Even seeing the shop in flames hadn’t truly frightened him… not like this. A small optimistic part of him had still assumed the angel was inside, perhaps injured, but **there** , just in need of a rescue once more, but **now** as he surveyed the damage and extended his senses out around him through the chaos, he knew the angel wasn’t there. Wasn’t anywhere really. There was not even the slightest trace of his aura in the building or the surrounding area.

“For Go- for Sa- for SOMEBODY’S SAKE, where ARE you?!” he cried frantically. A beam overhead crashed down near the melting gramophone and suddenly a window shattered.

The wind was completely knocked out of his chest as the demon found himself careening backwards, pummeled by the high-pressure jet of water pouring through the window from a firehose.

Crowley blinked a combination of water and tears from his now exposed yellow eyes and looked forlornly around him. He hadn’t felt so frightened or alone since his fall.

“Aziraphale?” he whimpered one more time, receiving no answer but the continued roar of the flames and sirens. “Right. You’ve gone,” he said, mostly to himself as he fumbled around for his ruined glasses. “SOMEBODY KILLED MY BEST FRIEND!” he blurted out angrily. “BASTARDS! ALL OF YOU!”

Another portion of the ceiling caved in and Crowley dove sideways instinctually to shield himself. He knew the building wouldn’t withstand much more and he would have to get out. The demon moved to push himself to his feet when his hand caught on something thin and metallic. Despite the flames, the object was not overly hot to the touch and Crowley thought he sensed the residue of angelic power on it.

_What the—_ another crash echoed behind him as a bookcase toppled over and Crowley was snapped from his thoughts. Tightening his fist around what he now realized was a chain, Crowley yanked and dislodged it from beneath another object, a heavy book with green binding which was lying miraculously unburnt in the midst of the rubble. Without stopping to consider why he was doing it, Crowley snatched it up as well and made for the door, not one second too soon as the roof came down around him.

If Crowley tried he could imagine what the humans trying in vain to put out the fire thought of him as he sauntered out of the burning shop singed, dripping, and bedraggled, his mangled sunglasses hanging off his face, but he couldn’t be bothered spending the energy to do it. It didn’t matter anymore and as the group of emergency responders parted before him, he even stopped caring that they could see his eyes as he pulled the glasses off and tossed them to the ground.

_What does it matter?_ He thought. _It’ll all be over soon_ and with the angel gone he neither cared, nor stood a chance to stop it. Crowley slumped into the Bentley’s driver’s seat and tossed the rescued book onto the passenger’s seat— _Aziraphale’s seat_ \-- his mind filled in. He shook his head to clear the thought then looked down at the other item which had initially caught his attention on the floor; it didn’t take him long to recognize it.

Crowley had first seen the thin silver chain around Aziraphale’s neck the night he’d saved the angel from the Nazis during the Blitz, though he didn’t know when he had started wearing it.

Aziraphale had invited him into the shop when he’d driven him home.[1] Once inside he had all but forcibly removed Crowley’s shoes so he could inspect his feet for any serious damage.

 _‘For Heaven’s sake, Dear Boy, just let me look!’_ he had snapped, when Crowley tried to assure him he was fine, before pushing the demon back firmly but gently into the couch.

Upon seeing the burns, which had essentially melted his socks to the scales on his feet, Aziraphale had proceeded to remove his own jacket, roll up his sleeves, and hurry off to the kitchen for a bowl of water. When he came back his bowtie was gone, and Crowley had spotted a flash of the chain around his neck, tucked into his open shirt collar.

He hadn’t asked that night what it was, he had been too stunned at the angel’s outpouring of affection and unusual display of skin.

_After all this time, he still cares,_ he remembered thinking. _He still cares too…_

Crowley hadn’t discovered the chain was actually a locket for another 20 years, when he’d run across the angel by chance a health club where they’d both been attempting to carry out orders to influence the same politician.[2]

_‘Angel?’_ Crowley had gasped when he caught sight of Aziraphale’s pale, broad shoulders and white curls in the changing room. Even from behind there was no mistaking his friend.

‘ _Crowley?!’_ he’d yelped, clutching a towel around his waist as he whirled to face the demon. It was then that Crowley had noticed the pendant, the only thing the angel had been wearing beside his ring, and the item he now clutched in his soot-coated hand as he sat in the Bentley.

It wasn’t particularly large, oblong in shape and ornately carved with gentle scrollwork and an elaborate, leafy tree on the front and a tiny pair of silver wings at the top holding the chain in place.

At the time he discovered it, he had wondered what the angel could possibly keep inside if he kept it so close.[3]

‘ _Nice necklace, Aziraphale,’_ he’d noted. ‘ _Anything important in there?’_

Aziraphale’s face had gone even redder than it already was and he had quickly clutched a hand to it, as if to conceal it.

‘ _Yes. No. I mean, thank you,’_ he had stammered. ‘ _It’s just an old thing I picked up.’_

It had been an obvious lie. Yes, technically, the necklace had to be old, since he’d seen it around his neck for years, but even if he hadn’t the excuse would have sounded flimsy. Even so, he hadn’t questioned it. He’d had more pressing concerns in the moment including the fact that he was standing stark naked in front of the betoweled angel and now needed to figure out a compromise on the temptation of the MP.

Now staring down at the same silver pendant he had wondered about more times than he could recall in the last fifty years, Crowley felt his hand begin to tremble.

_What is in there?_ He wondered. _Why was it so important to him? Why wasn’t he wearing it today?_

A shiver went up his spine. What could have gone wrong that not only was Aziraphale gone but that he had vanished leaving something so important to him behind with no other trace of his clothes or personal affects?

Crowley had often wondered if the locket was some sort of Heavenly artifact—it was clearly blessed as it caused his hand to tingle lightly where it touched his skin, though not enough to burn—but just what was in it he could not fathom.

As little good as he suspected it would do, he knew he had to know.[4] If there was even the slightest chance it could give him an answer about his friend’s disappearance[5] he had to see it for himself. If it didn’t, _well_ , he thought, _at least I’ll know what he cared about so much._

The clasp on the right side of the locket was damaged-- by rubble, or struggle, or his own rampaging around the shop he could not tell—and he reached out with his free hand as the chain lay flat on his trembling palm. He took one second to trace his finger gently over the carved wings and the raised tree—an apple tree, he noted-- before sliding his nail between the two halves of the pendant and flipping it open.

When his eyes took in the sight before him his breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t known what he expected to find inside but it most certainly was not a painted image of his own bespectacled face under a thin pane of shattered glass.

* * *

[1] More accurately he had insisted the demon come inside in a tone that brooked absolutely no argument.

[2] Apparently, they’d both had the same idea to approach the man in the sauna he frequented; working together so closely for 1,000 years, it seemed, had led to developing similar methods.

[3] Clearly, he never took it off if he was still wearing it with virtually nothing else.

[4] _Curiosity,_ he thought grimly, _has always been my downfall._

[5] “ _Destruction,”_ he tried not to think.


	2. The Locket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments and support on our initial posting! I'm overwhelmed by the enthusiasm this story has been met with! I hope you enjoy this chapter's check in with Aziraphale.

_  
Saturday-- 1 Hour Earlier   
_

Aziraphale rushed into the bookshop, closed the door behind him, and slumped against it. As an angel he had no need to sleep, but he felt exhausted, nevertheless.

He closed his eyes and heard Crowley’s words echo grimly in his mind _‘When I’m off in the stars, I won’t even THINK about you!’_

Never had he heard the demon sound so upset. Not even when they’d fought about the Holy Water all those years ago. Back then he’d been angry, today he sounded devastated.

“Oh Crowley…” he whispered, his hand raising instinctually to his chest where his fingers brushed the nearly imperceptible bulge beneath his shirt.

Slowly, he straightened up and slid his hand up to the back of his neck where the clasp of the chain was hidden under his collar.

With practiced precision, Aziraphale’s fingers deftly opened the clasp and pulled the antique silver locket from beneath his bowtie with a slight jerk. Years of diligent care[1] had prevented even a hint of tarnish from marring the intricately carved face, and only the area around the hinge was showing any sign of wear: the inescapable consequence of 150 years of wistful openings and closings.

Aziraphale pressed open the latch on the right side with the perfectly manicured nail of his thumb and gently flipped the locket open yet again to look down at the impeccably recreated visage of his best friend. He sighed.

He remembered the day he’d commissioned it like it was yesterday, though even then he wouldn’t have sworn what it was that had possessed him to do something so risky.

\-------------

It had been some time since their fight in St. James Park over the Holy Water: long enough for most of his anger to have simmered down, but not nearly long enough to forgive the demon for his request.

_What is he **thinking?!**_ Aziraphale had thought angrily as he thumbed through his original folio of Hamlet, the prince’s desperate soliloquy instantly conjuring memories of a black brocade doublet, an unfortunate facial hair choice, an almost certainly rigged coin toss, and one demonic “treat” to a miracle.

Aziraphale dropped the book to the desk and slumped forward with his head in his hands.

_How could he want to—_ but he couldn’t even finish the thought. Even now, over a year later, the idea was still too painful to contemplate. The mere possibility that Crowley was **that** miserable, that he could leave him forever without a second thought, that he could be so selfish…

“And he had the nerve to try and make me party to it!” Aziraphale snapped at no one for the umpteenth time since the day the demon had made his outrageous request.

Obtaining Holy Water pure enough to totally destroy a demon[2] was not the simplest task in the universe, but it wouldn’t have been impossible for Aziraphale. He’d thought about it in the weeks following their disagreement. He could steal it of course, but he wouldn’t **have to.** He could say he needed it to ward the shop, or as a weapon in case of emergency. No, it wasn’t the complications of acquiring the water from Heaven, or even the risk it would put him at should any of his superiors discover his real motive for taking it, that had Aziraphale so furious.[3] It was the thought that Crowley had asked him to do it without a care for how his destruction would impact the angel that had hit Aziraphale like a punch in the gut and even now had him on the verge of tears.

_Does he honestly think I wouldn’t care?_ He thought morosely.

It was with that glum thought in his head that Aziraphale suddenly heard the chime of the bell over the shop door. He looked up, almost expectantly, to see a dapper young man with light brown hair and a green coat that set off his eyes entering the shop.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Fell,” he said cheerfully.

“Good afternoon, Stephen,” Aziraphale replied, forcing a smile to his face. It wasn’t that he was unhappy to see him,[4] he just rather wished it at been someone else.[5]

Stephen Hedgeworth was the son of a jeweler who owned a shop up the road. He was a bright young man and would often stop by the bookshop for a visit and a cup of tea when his father gave him time off. He was quite well read, and the angel enjoyed his company, as it gave him someone to discuss his latest acquisitions with.

“Is this a bad time?” Stephen asked, undoubtedly noting the sad tone in Aziraphale’s voice.

“No, no, not at all,” Aziraphale quickly assured him, forcing himself to brighten up. Perhaps the company would do him some good. “I was just a bit lost in thought. Do come in. I’ve actually acquired a copy of the latest Whitman edition from an associate who was doing business in America since the last time you visited,” he added conspiratorially. “Apparently, it’s caused even more of a stir across the pond than the version from ’56.”

“You don’t say?” the boy laughed, removing his coat and following the angel into the shop. “Well, this I have to see.”

After thoroughly perusing the scandalous new edition of the book of poetry and debating the merits of this new “free verse” style for an hour,[6] Aziraphale had nearly forgotten his earlier melancholy. That is until he went to prepare tea and came across the tin of green tea Crowley had brought him after his last trip to do a temptation in Japan. He drew in a sharp breath and his hand shook gently as he moved the canister aside in search of extra sugar.

The moment did not escape Stephen’s attention.

“Everything alright, Ezra?” he asked.[7]

Aziraphale’s back stiffened and he withdrew his hand from the cupboard as if he’d been burnt.

“Oh! Yes, of course!” he replied far too quickly. “Absolutely tickety-boo.”

The boy gave him a look that said he was clearly unconvinced and raised one eyebrow quizzically. Stephen really was more observant than Aziraphale gave him credit for.

The angel sighed. “I just, um, found something in here I forgot I had,” he half-admitted.

“A gift from someone?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said softly, voice barely above a whisper.

“I understand.”

They fell into silence for a few moments as Aziraphale continued to make the tea, a silence Stephen eventually broke with a boldness Aziraphale had rarely seen displayed by anyone other than Crowley himself.

“I haven’t seen Mr. Crowley about for some time,” he said casually. “Do you know if he is alright?”

A spoon clattered to the floor and was only not followed by Aziraphale’s cup and saucer by the grace of a quick miracle.

“I assume he’s doing well,” the angel answered in a clipped tone.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” Stephen hurriedly corrected himself.[8] “I just know you and he are well acquainted…”

Aziraphale took a steadying breath. _It isn’t the boy’s fault._ _They know each other. Most people don’t just disappear without a word to anyone,_ he told himself as he tried to come up with an excuse. He knew Crowley was still in the area, he had casually passed the demon’s residence on an evening stroll several months ago and sensed his presence. He hadn’t dared go closer but knowing Crowley hadn’t done anything drastic had been enough to get him by.

“Yes, well, it has been some time since we last spoke,” he said. “Last I heard he was going to spend some time at his family estate in the country. Thought it would be good for his health. I do not know when or if he will be coming back.”

“My apologies,” Stephen said, sure now he had indeed interpreted Aziraphale’s mood correctly. “I hope all is well.”

“As do I,” Aziraphale answered, willfully ignoring the subtly implied inquiry to his own wellbeing. “He was rather upset last we spoke. Not quite himself…”

“Perhaps some sort of gift might do Mr. Crowley some good?” Stephen suggested after another moment of pensive silence. “Let him know that his friends in London are thinking of him?”

Aziraphale hesitated. His lie had been meant to keep the human from asking follow-up questions, but it appeared to have had the opposite effect. He could say no, of course, but that could just send the boy snooping on his own for the address to an estate that did not exist and the last thing he wanted to do was blow Crowley’s cover or raise suspicions about their false identities… As if Crowley wasn’t angry with him enough already…

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale said cautiously. “What, pray tell, did you have in mind?”

Stephen shrugged, but a smile was starting to cross his handsome face. “I don’t know, but I’m sure Father could work something up for you. Or I could paint something, you know I’ve been getting better with my artistry…”

As the boy babbled on, Aziraphale was struck with an idea. A mad, reckless idea he would forever question the wisdom of, but would never truly regret. Before he had time to talk himself out of it, he spoke up.

“Stephen?” he asked. “How are you at painting portraits?”

The boy smiled.

\---------------

If Stephen ever realized Aziraphale never sent the miniature, or the locket he had asked his father to fashion to hold it, to Crowley, he had never let on.

The same miracle that had kept the tarnish off the exterior of the necklace had protected the portrait from the ravages of time, and as Aziraphale starred now at the delicately painted image of Crowley’s face, he was every bit as impressed with his old friend’s skill as he had been the day Stephen had delivered it to the shop. Aziraphale had cried just a bit that day at the amazing likeness and hardly a day had passed since then that he had not worn it around his neck, concealed always by his shirt and tie.

In a strange way, it made him feel as if it kept a piece of the demon with him—like he could protect him--- even if they went years without seeing each other, or Crowley never knew the thing existed.[9]

 _“We’re not friends, I don’t even like you!”_ he heard himself shout again as he took in the painting.

Even after all **that** the demon had still come back. He didn’t deserve him… as a friend or anything more.

Aziraphale’s stomach lurched at the thought of Crowley on the run alone.

 _I need to fix this,_ he thought desperately, beginning to pace about the room. _Maybe it’s for the best Crowley gets a head start if Hell is onto him. I can work all this out and maybe I can get him asylum… He tried to sabotage Satan after all… I just need to figure out what to say. Who to contact…_

Crowley had always been good at talking himself out of predicaments,[10] but Aziraphale was not. He preferred to have a plan. The room was starting to feel as if it was closing in on him as he tried to come up with a strategy. He needed some air and to think this through.

Aziraphale took one last look at the portrait in his palm and steeled his nerve. He still had a little time! He **would** straighten this mess out. He had to. For Crowley. For himself. For the world!

Maybe if he could really prevent Armageddon, Crowley would find it in his heart to forgive him.

Closing his hand around the locket, he felt it click shut and he set it resolutely on his desk next to Agnes Nutter’s book. He would take one lap around the block to figure out his appeal to the Almighty then come back and make the call. He let out a deep breath. Everything would be fine!

\--------------------------————————

Everything was most assuredly **not** fine!

Half-way through his walk around the block Aziraphale had been most unexpectedly accosted by a trio of Archangels. If Gabriel’s dismissive attitude this morning in the park hadn’t been enough to convince him he needed to speak directly to the top to stop all this, Michael and Uriel’s threatening words and the dull ache in his middle courtesy of Sandalphon certainly had. 

To make matters worse, things had already started, and the gathering storm clouds told him, ready or not, he had very little time left to reach the Almighty.[11]

Without taking time to dwell on his predicament, Aziraphale pulled the shades in the shop windows, locked the door, and pulled aside the throw rug to reveal his personal prayer circle.

 _Here goes nothing,_ he thought nervously as he lit the last candle and steepled his hands in prayer.

“Hello. This is the Principality Aziraphale. I’m looking for… um. A Higher Authority. Is there anybody there?”

No one answered. From the other side of the shop, he heard a knock at the door.

“We’re closed!” he snapped, before returning to the circle.

“This really is frightfully important. I’m prepared to take this all the way to the top,” he implored.

The flames on the candles flickered and the circle glowed to life, suddenly filled with heavenly light and the giant, glowing face of the Metatron. 

“I need to speak to the Almighty,” he said, relieved to have gotten through.

“Speak, Aziraphale,” the Metatron answered calmly.

“Is that… am I speaking to… God?” he knew he wasn’t, but he wanted to make his point clear.

“You are speaking to the Metatron, Aziraphale. To speak to me is to speak to God. I am the voice of the Almighty.”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said, unimpressed, but too nervous to risk losing his opportunity. He only had one shot at this. “But you’re the voice of the Almighty in the same way a presidential spokesman is the voice of the president. I actually need to speak directly to God.”

“What is said to me is said to the Almighty.”

Aziraphale hesitated. This was not going at all according to what little plan he had managed to make.

“Well, Aziraphale?” 

Aziraphale sighed. He supposed he had better take what he could get. Perhaps the Metatron would see reason and put him through to the proper channel.

“Well, I want to complain about the conduct of some angels,” he said, thinking angrily again of Sandalphon. “But the important thing is, the Antichrist. I know who he is. I know where he is!”

“Good work. Well done,” the Metatron said, sounding unimpressed.

Aziraphale sensed the tone but was not sure if it was due to actual dismissal or the Metatron’s lack of people skills. Refusing to give up hope he pressed on.

“So there doesn’t need to be any of that nonsense with a third of the seas turning to blood or anything! There needn’t be a war. We can save everyone!”

“The point is not to avoid the war, it is to win it,” the Metatron said coldly.

Aziraphale felt his heart sink as he realized there was no sense arguing the point. Nobody was going to listen!

“Ah. Hmm,” he said, stalling. Instinctually, his eyes roamed across the room to his desk and the antique rotary phone sitting on it. “What sort of initiating event will precipitate the war?”

“We thought a multi-nation nuclear exchange would be a nice start.”

“Very imaginative,” Aziraphale said with a hopeless sigh. Bizarrely he thought of Crowley and how disappointed he’d be in the lack of creativity for the end of the world.[12]

“You also wished to complain about the poor conduct of some angels,” the Metatron asked.

“Not really much point, now,” Aziraphale said. He had bigger things to worry about than Sandalphon and Michael…

“The battle commences, Aziraphale,” the Metatron said, barely registering the Principality’s words. “Join us.”

“In a jiffy,” Aziraphale said nervously trying to come up with an excuse to stall. “Just a couple of things left to tie up.”

“We will leave the gateway open for you, then,” the Metatron said matter-of-factly. “Do not dawdle.”

Then he was gone in a flash, the ghostly angelic light of the circle glowing dimmer in his absence.

“Jolly… jolly good,” Aziraphale said softly, looking once again towards the telephone. “Is, um, is anyone still there?”

Receiving no answer, Aziraphale breathed the tiniest sigh of relief and made a beeline for the phone.

 _I’ve been such a fool!_ He scolded himself. _Why didn’t I just trust Crowley?_

He dialed the demon’s number frantically. Maybe there was a chance he could still reach him.

Aziraphale’s heart leapt when after several rings Crowley’s voice met his ears.

"This is Anthony J. Crowley,” the demon drawled. “You know what to do, do it with style.”

“I know it’s you, you idiot, I called you!” he shouted, oddly infuriated by the demon’s casual tone. “Listen! I know where the Antichrist is,” he began, fully prepared to spill everything he had withheld from his friend and beg for his help.

Crowley cut him off though.

“Yeah, now’s not a really a good time,” he said quickly. “I’ve got an old friend over.”

“But!”

Crowley hung up.

Aziraphale stared dumbstruck at the phone for a moment. _An old friend? What is going on?_

Before he could think more on it or figure out what he was supposed to do Aziraphale heard incomprehensible shouting and found himself face to face with a furious Sergeant Shadwell.

“I think you’ve got the wrong shop,” he tried to tell him. There had to have been a mistake, but the man was out of his mind: ringing a bell and screaming about witches, and demons, and seductions, and candles.

Aziraphale had to stop him from stepping in the circle! The last thing he needed was a dead human in his shop or an unexpected soul showing up in Heaven ranting about him consorting with the devil. He was in enough trouble as it was!

“Whatever you think you’ve just seen, just don’t cross the circle, you stupid man!” he shouted, trying to insert himself between the circle and the crazed witchfinder who was now pointing at him accusingly.

Aziraphale suddenly felt an odd surge of power coursing through his entire essence and realized too late he had crossed the circle himself! A force like a magnet was pulling him hard towards the source of his Heavenly power and there was no resisting it.

It was all too much for his corporation to handle and he felt himself begin to be torn apart.

“Oh, fuck!” he spat, right before he felt a burst of pain and his vision went white.

* * *

[1] And a mild protective miracle.

[2] Not that human-made Holy Water couldn’t do the trick, most of it absolutely could, however, there was always a chanced it was heavily diluted or that the ‘blesser’ was themselves so corrupt and sinful that the request for a blessing was largely ignored and the resulting water wouldn’t do more than sting or burn any demon who came into contact with it. If you wanted to guarantee results you had to go directly to the source, which is why, Aziraphale was sure, Crowley had come to him and not some random priest.

[3] Although those terrifying ideas had definitely crossed his mind.

[4] He was definitely more welcome than a customer!

[5] _A foolish thought, really,_ he told himself. 

[6] Aziraphale was still not completely sure he liked it, but he had to admit the man’s words were stirring, whether they rhymed or not.

[7] Aziraphale had been quite relieved when the shop had gotten old enough for him to claim it was originally his father’s which he inherited, so his preferred human alias once again made sense. Despite how incredibly clever he’d thought the name A.Z. Fell had looked on his sign for the shop, he’d never really given the initials proper thought and he’d been horribly embarrassed when Crowley had asked several years after his grand opening (and several glass of brandy into their conversation) what the A.Z. stood for, and he had no proper answer. Over the years he had signed many documents that way but when he needed a real, full name, he had usually gone by Ezra Fell, Sir Aziraphale, or once for a brief time masquerading as a well-to-do woman in Florence, as Mrs. Angelica Fellini (another name which Crowley had found insanely amusing). To this day the official, full moniker of A.Z. Fell had never been determined.

[8] That wasn’t entirely true, he had his suspicions about his friend’s disquiet and wanted them confirmed, but humans with any sense of self-preservation can detect Heavenly wrath in the air even if they don’t know what it is and tend to avoid it.

[9] Aziraphale had nearly discorporated from shock the day Crowley asked about it in that ridiculous health club and had been quite relieved his lie had been convincing enough to keep the subject from ever being broached again.

[10] And into them too, if Aziraphale was being honest.

[11] He was most certainly not ready. No one had spoken to Her in years, and the last time he had, he had lied. It could be an awkward conversation… Still, he had to try.

[12] He could almost hear the demon ranting in his head: _Oh, like that’s never been done before! What did they do, Google ‘action movie cliches’? They only get one shot at this, why not make it something original?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Next week we'll be back with Crowley.  
> There are a few quick notes I wanted to provide for this chapter:  
> 1) The book Aziraphale and Stephen are discussing is Walt Whitman's poetry collection "Leaves of Grass" which he published multiple, updated editions of throughout his life and which was controversial because of its sexual (and potentially homosexual) themes. This would be the 1860 edition. International copywrite laws were incredibly convoluted in the 1800s, so getting good copies of American literature in England would have been somewhat tricky.  
> 2) I went around in circles with several people on Facebook and Discord trying to determine which happened first, Crowley asking Aziraphale to run away or Aziraphale's confrontation with the Arkangels. Eventually, I sought an answer from Neil himself on Twitter and I can now confidently say this is the correct order of events.


	3. The Airbase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we’re back with Crowley! Thank you again for all the wonderful love and support on the last chapter!

_  
Saturday, 20 Minutes After the Bookshop Fire   
_

Crowley wasn’t sure how he got to the pub. He had no memory of anything, really, after fishing a new pair of sunglasses out of the glove box.

It was a miracle[1] he had been able to navigate the Bentley through the crowded, chaotic city streets without hitting anything.

Crowley’s mind was whirling with a thousand thoughts more important than the technicalities of where he was going or how to get there. The world was ending, Aziraphale was gone, and there was a smashed-up locket with his own picture in it clutched in his trembling hand.

Over the years Crowley had often wondered about the contents of Aziraphale’s mysterious accessory. Usually, the thoughts bordered on the banal: that it contained some sort of Heavenly artifact or directive the angel was particularly attached to, maybe something from the Almighty Herself, or a memento of a job he had particularly enjoyed. He’d once drunkenly concocted a theory that it was some type of communication device Heaven could use to contact him, like Hell had taken to using electronics to barge in on him.[2]

On other days when he felt particularly dejected or jealous, he would think of the locket and wonder if Aziraphale used it for exactly what it was designed for—something far more Earthly than ethereal—to hold a photo or lock of hair of a loved one.

He had never figured out when exactly the angel had acquired the necklace, but he knew he’d never seen it before their fight over the Holy Water. Aziraphale had learned to dance in those years when Crowley had been fast asleep sulking... maybe one of his “gentleman” friends from the club had been more to him than he ever let on. Perhaps without Crowley around, Aziraphale had fallen in love with some human and still carried a torch for him all these years later. The thought had nearly driven him mad on more than one occasion.

But no. It was nothing like that. Or maybe it was. He’d been right on the picture count at least, but never in his life would he have guessed it was his own image the angel had carried so close to his literal heart all these years.

“Where did he even get this?” he muttered as he uncorked his bottle of Talisker and poured himself a glass without ever taking his eyes off the soot-covered locket and the, admittedly quite good, painting. 

“What does it mean?”

If it meant what he’d always assumed it would mean were it a human’s picture Aziraphale carried around with him then… Crowley shuddered. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go down that road. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough yet.

Aziraphale was gone.

Whatever he had felt was of little consequence now and Crowley didn’t know if it was better or worse to think that for all those years, his own unspoken feelings had been quietly reciprocated.

The demon threw back his drink in one gulp and began pouring another.

_No good going there, Old Boy,_ he told himself. _Besides, he’d taken it off, hadn’t he? Why would he have done that if he still cared? He wore it everywhere…_

 _“We’re not friends, I don’t even like you!”_ he heard the angel shout petulantly in the back of his mind. Even in his hurt and anger yesterday Crowley had been able to sense the lie there. He’d even gone as far as to call him out for it this time.

No. That wasn’t what had done it. It wasn’t the idea to run away. With a sickening lurch of his stomach Crowley remembered his own words the last time he’d seen the best friend he’d ever had.

_“When I’m off in the stars I won’t even think about you!”_

What if that had been it? The final straw that made the angel, his angel, the being he loved more than anything in the world, give up hope on him for good? 

Crowley let out a broken sob and downed his second drink. He’d broken Aziraphale’s heart then hung up on him when he had probably been in trouble.

He would never forgive himself.

With one last accusatory glare at the locket, Crowley snapped the thing shut and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. He couldn’t bear to look at it any longer, but he’d be blessed if he let anything happen to it as long as he was still alive… _not that that’ll be much longer now,_ he thought grimly.

He waved the bartender over to order another bottle.

If only he had one more chance, he thought sadly. He’d do anything Aziraphale asked. Anything to make it up to him. But the world was ending. What chance was there of that?

One hour and a significant amount of self-deprecating analysis of his bad life choices later, the storm had picked up outside and Crowley was much drunker. He thought the bartender was contemplating throwing him out as he ordered his third bottle, but he was beyond caring.[3] Before he could uncork the bottle to continue drowning his feelings a thunderclap shook the windows and Crowley swore he saw a blurry specter in a cream color jacket and tartan bow tie sitting in the chair across from him.

“Aziraphale?” he gasped. Maybe he had already drank too much after all… “Are you here?”

“Good question. Not certain. Never done this before,” the unmistakable, fussy voice of the guardian of the eastern gate answered. “Can you hear me?”

“‘course I can hear you,” Crowley answered automatically, his grief and regret momentarily overcome with drunken shock. Beneath the depression and alcohol churning in his stomach, a faint spark of hope was struggling to fizzle to life.

\--------------------—————————---

Crowley felt like his whole body was vibrating with his own power… or maybe that was just the car trying to come apart beneath him. In some ways it didn’t matter: the two sensations were inextricably linked at the moment. Ever since he’d made the questionably sane decision to drive the Bentley through the wall of flame that had once been the M25[4] he’d been driving like he’d never driven before, pushing his girl’s engine as hard as it could go while simultaneously channeling every bit of demonic energy he had in his extensive imagination into holding the machine together as he made a beeline for Tadfield.

Somewhere in an absurd, back corner of his mind which was not currently occupied with the road, the car, and the end of the world, he remembered a film he’d seen: two men in black suits and sunglasses outrunning a squadron of police cars in a beat-up old sedan. “They’re not gonna catch us. We’re on a mission from God,” the driver had declared.

It felt ridiculously appropriate. Only Crowley wasn’t on a mission from God. On the contrary, he was trying his damnedest to thwart Her on a directive from one of her own soldiers: the most glorious, bastard angel ever created, his best friend, the miraculously **not dead** Principality Aziraphale.

_“Wherever you are, I’ll come to you,”_ he had drunkenly declared to the angel’s ghostly shape in the pub. He’d meant it. Which is why he was now driving Hell-bent for leather, literally to the end of the Earth.[5] He didn’t know what would await him when he arrived at the airbase. If Aziraphale would be able to successfully possess a human he’d be impressed,[6] but he hoped he would—he wasn’t sure how long the angel would be able to stay on the Earthly plane without a corporation otherwise.

In the end it didn’t really matter though. Whether or not Aziraphale made it to the airbase, Crowley had his orders, and he knew the angel was still alive. If Crowley could just get to Tadfield in time and solve this, it didn’t matter if Aziraphale was physically with him. They still had a chance!

_“I worked it all out,”_ Aziraphale had said, referring to the neatly scribbled notes inside the singed book of prophecies currently sitting on Crowley’s lap.

Crowley thought he had heard a hint of regret in his voice when he’d said it, but he didn’t dare try to decode what it meant. He didn’t have the energy between holding the car together, maneuvering the traffic, and avoiding the random Tibetans that kept popping up in the road.[7] Any extra brainpower he had to spare was exclusively going to rejoicing about Aziraphale’s survival. 

_He’s alive?!_ Was all he’d been able to think to himself as he’d sat mystified in the bar after his friend’s disappearance.

_“You had better get a wiggle on!”_ he heard the angel’s voice echo in his head. _He’s alive and still ridiculous! There’s still hope._

Exactly what had led to his discorporation or his apparent abandonment of Heaven, Crowley couldn’t fathom, but it hardly mattered in the moment. He was alive! His best friend-- the only person he’d ever truly loved—hadn’t been brutally annihilated! And as if that weren’t enough, he hadn’t given up on him either! He’d come looking for him even before finding himself a body. He trusted Crowley enough to tell him what he knew and send him into action on his own. Maybe it was a bit late, but he didn’t care. Aziraphale was alive and he was back on Crowley’s side— **their side**.

As the demon had sobered up and fished his car keys from his pocket, he’d felt the slight tug of the locket chain tangling around his fingers and spared a thought for the trinket: Aziraphale must not have been wearing it when he got discorporated and there had to be a reason for that, but perhaps it was moot now. His angel had come back for him despite everything to tell him they still had a chance to save the world. He didn’t know what the locket’s existence or absence meant, but he was hopeful that perhaps whatever damage he’d done wasn’t completely beyond repair. Now he just had to get back to Tadfield to ensure he would have the time to fix it. 

“He’s alive and he’s counting on me,” he had said to himself as he threw the car in gear. It had been a similar thought that had finally pushed him to pull onto the shoulder and drive pell-mell towards a wall of red-hot-ice-cold fire, and it was that thought again that reverberated in his head now as the car gave a lurch around the last bend in the road before the airbase as the speakers blared the loudest notes of Bohemian Rhapsody.[8]

Three humans turned to face him as he approached the gate, clearly more taken aback by his mode of transport than the old dog walker had been.

Deciding to commit fully to the spectacle, he pulled dramatically to a halt and flung the door open, snatching up the book and swinging his legs out as a puff of acrid black smoke billowed around him.

“You don’t get that kind of performance out of a modern car!” he announced as he sauntered towards the small and, he now noted, heavily armed, group.

“Crowley!” the smallest member of the group, a middle-aged woman with bright red hair, greeted him fondly in a familiar voice.

His heart leapt.

_I’ll be blessed, he actually did it!_

“Hey Aziraphale, see you found a ride,” he shouted, feeling giddy inside. “Nice dress. Suits you.”

Aziraphale made a weird, flattered sound then began to fret, pointing at an armed guard standing next to—was that Sergeant Shadwell?

_What the Heaven is he doing here?_

“This young man won’t let us in!” Aziraphale informed him.

“Leave it to me,” Crowley answered with more swagger and confidence than he actually felt. He’d discovered over the millennia that the trick to getting what you want is to act like you know what you’re talking about.

“Army Human,” he said menacingly, glaring at the guard with the full effect of his snake eyes. “My friend and I have come a long way and—”

Strangely, before he could finish, the gate behind them opened with a click and Crowley wondered for a moment if perhaps his powers were on the fritz after the long ordeal in the car.

“Which one of you did that?” the guard demanded in outrage.

Crowley turned to look at Aziraphale when, inexplicably, four children on bicycles flew by and through the gate without a second glance at any of them.

_The antichrist!_

“Okay! Those kids are in trouble and so are you people!” the guard shouted, signaling someone on his radio.

Before Crowley could react, a loud bang echoed behind him and the demon turned in horror to see his beloved Bentley explode in a ball of flame.

For a minute he was back in the bookshop, surrounded by fire and watching something he loved be destroyed. All thoughts of the guard were temporarily erased as he dropped to his knees. “Ninety years and not a scratch,” he whispered sadly. “Now look at you.”

To his side, Crowley could vaguely hear Aziraphale calling to him.

“Crowley! He’s got a gun. He’s pointing it! Do something.”

For just a second the frustration and stress he’d felt since the bandstand seeped out.

 _Yesterday you said it was over. Today you almost gave up on me. I’m here for you, I forgive you, but for Satan’s sake let me have this! I can’t do everything!_ he wanted to scream.

“I am having a moment here!” he snapped instead, as he watched one of his favorite Earthly possessions of all time smolder—a microcosm of what was to come if they failed here, the fear he’d been living with the last eleven years.

“Crowley, I’m the nice one! You can’t expect me to do the dirty work!” Aziraphale cried.

_That’s a good one,_ Crowley thought. He might have laughed had he not been so distraught; he knew a French executioner in Hell who would beg to differ with the angel.

Behind him, he could hear Shadwell and the guard shouting but he was still too numb to process it.

He heard Aziraphale storm off and the tingle of a miracle rippled in the air. There was a popping sound and the guard’s voice vanished, breaking Crowley from his emotional trance.

“Rest in peace,” he whispered to the Bentley’s remains, as he picked up the crank handle that had flown from the explosion and reverently placed a kiss on it. “You were a good car.”

Shaking his mind clearer, he rose and turned back to Aziraphale, who was fretting again.

“Nice job on the soldier,” he said.

“Oh, I do hope I haven’t sent him somewhere unpleasant.”

Before he could reassure the angel, Crowley heard an engine and saw a jeep full of armed soldiers heading towards them.

“Okay, I’ve got to get over the car thing,” Crowley mumbled almost ashamed of his behavior. He drew in a breath and prepared for another big use of power, “I’ll deal with them.”

“Don’t worry, Laddie, I’ve got a finger,” Shadwell announced, presumably thinking that information was helpful. Crowley ignored him.

_What’s that daft loon doing here anyway?_

Aziraphale was now advising the witchfinder that he may need to use the “weapon”—if it could really be called that—he had brought along.

_And how does Aziraphale know him?_

That musing was immediately cut off however by the unfortunate slip of an angelic tongue.

“We are here to lick some serious butt!” the red-headed woman proclaimed in Aziraphale’s voice.

“Kick, Aziraphale!” Crowley corrected emphatically. “Kick butt, for Heaven’s sake!”

Crowley almost choked on his own words and had to swallow down bile. “Can’t believe I just said that” he muttered.

The jeep of soldiers was closing in, guns readied. Crowley raised his hand, preparing to snap the unit into a timeshare presentation in New Mexico,[9] when a woman’s voice spoke up.

“He’s right, Dearie, they’re very different. You never want to say you’ll lick butt in polite company. Even most **impolite** company charges extra for that.”

The voice cut itself off with an affronted, embarrassed sound from Aziraphale and Crowley’s mind skipped mid-snap as he processed the filthy exchange.

There was a pop and a skidding sound as the suddenly driverless jeep careened to a stop in front of them.

“Alright, tha’s enougha that,” Crowley said decisively as he hopped behind the wheel. “Everybody in!” 

_ Meanwhile… _

Nearly five thousand miles away inside Slightly Sinful Strip Tease outside Albuquerque, chaos was erupting as Army Privates Rogers, Kelly, Ryan, and Pierce found themselves quite confusingly surrounded by flashing strobe lights and six oiled young men in devil horns and various levels of undress.

The initial shocked screams as the four, armed soldiers had appeared on stage seemingly out of nowhere was immediately followed by a round of whooping cat calls and applause from the small audience of people far too intoxicated for noon on a Saturday and a slimy sounding announcer’s voice rang out from the DJ booth.

“Whoa! Did somebody call in the cavalry? What an entrance. Let’s give it up for our brave boys in uniform!”

Rogers spun around in horrified confusion, as more applause sounded not sure where to point his gun and wondering where the weirdos on the tarmac-- and the tarmac itself-- had gone, while behind him Kelly laughed and started pumping his fist in the air in time to the throbbing music as the most scantily clad of the devils ground up against him.

“General’s never gonna believe this,” Ryan said to his comrades before the music got impossibly louder and they all decided they really had no choice but to play along and start dancing.

\---------------

“Where did you send them?” Aziraphale asked Crowley as he climbed into the jeep’s passenger seat.

“Not important,” Crowley said with a shake of his head, honestly wondering himself where the troops had gone in his moment of distraction. “Any place has got to be better than here right now.”

* * *

[1] Quite literally.

[2] Though with a clear head he had to admit that wouldn’t explain why Aziraphale had been so cagey about it when he’d questioned it.

[3] So was the bartender. No sense throwing out a customer buying a lot of expensive liquor when nobody else was coming in... even if he was talking to himself nonsensically about the devil, and angels, and ducks.

[4] He was both oddly proud and angry with himself for that one… he’d never anticipated **that** particular side effect when he’d altered the road’s design plans all those years ago.

[5] And back, hopefully, but he knew there was no guarantee there.

[6] It was tricky to do even for most demons; after a couple unfortunate incidents they’d started requiring a training course before you could get clearance for those missions.

[7] It was swerving to avoid one of those tricky buggers he suspected had caused him to miss the fallen road sign and need to ask for directions from that surprisingly unphased, if long-winded, man with the little dog.

[8] His girl knew how to make an entrance with style!

[9] Crowley had won a commendation for inventing those.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> For people who did not know the reference, the movie Crowley thinks of in the car is “The Blues Brothers.” Considering it’s essentially a car chase comedy featuring R&B/soul music and heroes who are basically jerks in sunglasses who get in a lot of trouble trying to help orphans, it seemed to me like something that would be right up his alley.


	4. The Bus Stop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still sticking with Crowley again this chapter, and we've had a tiny time jump.

_ Saturday Night _

It was over! (The Apocalypse, not the world) Well, it was over for humanity at least. For them? Crowley wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t quite sure of much of anything at the moment other than the fact that he was alive, he was exhausted, and he had no intention of driving that stolen, rough-riding army jeep all the way back to London.

He’d made it as far as the liquor store, where Aziraphale was currently paying for a bottle of hopefully passable wine, when he pulled over and slumped back into the driver’s seat.

There was a bus stop in front of the church up the road. They could catch a ride home there. Aziraphale was going to ask the clerk in the shop when the next bus was due. Not that it really mattered, he’d wait as long as he had to. After everything he’d been through today, he didn’t want to spend any more time than necessary behind the wheel of an inferior vehicle, and he didn’t think Aziraphale would appreciate a dark ride on the highway—if it still existed—in a roofless vehicle with a driver who was less focused than usual on the road.

Crowley sighed and leaned his head impossibly further back, taking full advantage of his extra vertebrae to stretch his sore neck. The tension of the morning’s disasters hadn’t fully left him, but he still felt like he could sleep for a few years if he was left alone in the quiet, fresh air much longer.

He was not alone for long though, and really, he was just as glad. Crowley’s eyes had been closed for only a matter of minutes when he heard the bell on the liquor store door chime merrily as Aziraphale stepped out, a brown paper bag in hand and a tired-looking smile on his face.

Crowley sat up and swung himself out of the car, reaching back in to retrieve the occult items they’d gathered off the tarmac after Satan’s disappearance.

He still couldn’t quite believe this was real: that he had survived, that **Aziraphale** was alive and back in one piece, and that the world (however much was left of it) was going to get to keep on turning. It was too good to be true… for a demon, that usually meant something bad was coming.

“Their selection left something to be desired but I daresay this may be just what the doctor ordered,” Aziraphale said with a chuckle, raising the bottle triumphantly.

“As long as it’s drinkable, it’ll do,” Crowley agreed, taking the box containing the crown and scales under his arm and thrusting the hilt of the angel’s wayward sword towards him.

“Quite right. It was fortunate my wallet was still in my pocket,” Aziraphale noted. “Adam didn’t miss a trick. Everything’s accounted for… Everything I had with me when I got discorporated, anyway.”

He wiped his free hand down the front of his shirt before reaching out and taking the sword from Crowley, their fingers brushing slightly as the holy weapon passed between them.

“Glad to hear it, Angel,” Crowley said softly. It was an understatement. Aziraphale had lost so much already today, at least he’d gotten back his body and treasured personal effects.[1] It was quite literally all he had left. Even the “souvenir” Crowley had tried to keep from the bookshop had been reclaimed by the girl he’d hit with his car.

_The car…_

Crowley let out a deep sigh. The loss stung more than it should when he had Aziraphale and the planet still here… he could only imagine what Aziraphale was going through over the bookshop.

As they started walking towards the bench where the bus would eventually come pick them up—Aziraphale said it would be a while—Crowley’s mind drifted to the locket in his pocket. He wondered if he should just give it to the angel, but he quickly decided against it. He still didn’t know how Aziraphale felt after everything that had happened. Obviously, they were still friends; at least he had that. In the brief, glorious moment of peace when he had managed to get them to safety outside the flow of time, before they’d spoken to Adam, he’d locked eyes with Aziraphale for just a second and he’d known the angel had only done what he’d had to. He hadn’t meant what he’d said. A mad part of him had wanted to rush to him right then and there, wrap his arms around him, and crush him to himself like the snake he was, never to let go, but they had had work to do.

_No,_ he decided. This was neither the time nor the place to broach the subject of the locket. Maybe when they got back to London. Maybe if they survived whatever revenge their employers would surely wreak on them. He knew he had to give it back to him eventually, even if they didn’t talk about it, but not right now. Right now, he just wanted to wait for the bus and have a drink with the best friend who, only a few hours before, he had been sure he’d lost forever.

Whatever other feelings laid between them-- or didn’t-- could wait. This was enough.

“I must say,” Aziraphale said with a sigh as he took his seat. “I am quite impressed with young Adam and his friends. They handled themselves quite well back there.”

“Yep,” Crowley drawled. “Not too bad. Rather impressed with Warlock too, for what it’s worth,” he added, snapping his fingers to pop the cork out of the wine and taking a deep swig as another wave of exhaustion washed over him. “Apparently, he got dragged all the way out to Megiddo and told a Duke of Hell he ‘smelled like poo’ right to ‘is face.”

Aziraphale chuckled as Crowley smiled a little more proudly than he’d ever admit.

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale said a little sheepishly. “I am glad no harm befell either of them. It all worked out for the best.” He pulled a bit of paper from his jacket pocket and fiddled with it. “Just imagine how awful it could have been had we been remotely competent.”

“Ngk… point taken,” he said begrudgingly. “What’s that?” he asked, eager to not focus on their own extensive cockups.

“Fell out of Agnes Nutter’s book,” Aziraphale said, handing over the charred scrap.

_When alle is fayed and all is done, ye must choofe your faces wisely, for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre,_ Crowley read.

“So, this is the last one of Agnes’ prophecies?”

“As far as I know.”

Crowley considered it for a moment and a sinking feeling set in his stomach that he didn’t want to think about. He had suspected they weren’t out of this yet.

“And Adam…” he asked, mostly to break the tension. “Human again?”

“As far as I can tell. Yes.” Aziraphale answered.

There was another silence as they drank, and Crowley contemplated everything that had transpired.

“Angel?” he asked gently. “Do you think She planned it like this? All along?’ He wasn’t sure he was just talking about the end of the world anymore.

“Could be,” Aziraphale said matter-of-factly. “I wouldn’t put it past Her.”

A delivery truck suddenly pulled up, saving Crowley from having to say anything else. As Aziraphale handed over the weapons of the end of the world, Crowley stared back down at Agnes’ prophecy.

_Playing with fire…_ he shuddered. He’d had more than enough fire today to last him several human lifetimes. _What are you talking about, Agnes?_ He wondered idly, hoping to be struck by inspiration. All that came to him was a sickening hunch. _Hellfire._

“Well, thank you,” Crowley heard Aziraphale say brightly, dragging him away from his horrible thoughts. “It’s nice to have someone who recognizes **our** part in saving—”

“I need someone to sign for it,” the delivery man said.

Aziraphale visibly deflated, and Crowley couldn’t resist smirking.

“Oh. Right.”

As the human turned to leave, he seemed to consider something and spoke again. “Do you believe in life after death?” he asked.

“I suppose I must do,” Aziraphale answered sweetly.

“Yeah,” the man said with the kind of relief and calm humans always seemed to experience around the angel. “If I told my wife what happened to me today, she wouldn’t believe me. And I wouldn’t blame her.”

With that, he was off. Crowley couldn’t help but feel he related to the sentiment: this had been the longest day of his immortal life[2] and it still wasn’t over. Not really. Not unless they could figure out this last bloody prophecy. Otherwise, they were doomed and there would be no ‘life after death’ for them. Not for Aziraphale if Hellfire was involved. Crowley shuddered. After all they had been through today, he couldn’t really be back to where he’d started this morning, could he?

Crowley couldn’t bear to think about it. _There has to be an answer!_

“Oh, there it is,” Aziraphale suddenly said. He was craning his neck to look past Crowley up the road. The lights of a bus were approaching. “It says Oxford on the front,” he observed, sounding disappointed.

“Yeah, but it’ll drive to London,” Crowley said with a sleepy attempt at a smirk. “It just won’t know why.”

“I suppose I should have him drop me off at the bookshop,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley’s heart broke for him.

“It burned down,” he reminded his friend gently. “Remember?”

Crowley certainly couldn’t forget. Nor, he thought, would he ever forget the crestfallen look on Aziraphale’s face as he was reminded and seemed to truly process the information for the first time.

_Dear Somebody, I love him,_ he thought unbidden, desperately wishing he could make the pain go away. Helplessly, he offered what he could. “You could stay at my place,” he said softly. “If you like.”

Aziraphale looked startled and almost smiled before stammering nervously, “I don’t think my side would like that.”

“You don’t have a side,” Crowley said, gentle but blunt. “Not anymore. Neither of us do.”

It was the truth. Crowley knew it as well as he knew his own name[3] and there was no sense beating around the bush. Despite what they were and their millennia of service, Crowley knew they were both as good as dead to their former sides. There would be no second chances this time, as unjust as that may be.

Aziraphale gave him a sad look but made a small noise of acknowledgment and nodded as the bus pulled up to them, saying all at once, and without words, ‘you’re right,’ ‘okay,’ and ‘thank you.’ He didn’t need to say it out loud. Crowley understood.

The demon hazarded a small smile back and rose to board the bus, sliding the prophecy into his pocket, on the opposite side of the broken locket.

The bus was mostly empty. It was late and people had been far too traumatized, even if they weren’t sure why or by what, to be out travelling tonight.

Crowley slid into an empty seat by the window, half expecting Aziraphale to follow their usual pattern and take the seat behind him.

He was pleased but not completely surprised when the angel broke tradition to move into the seat next to him. He was, however, shocked when Aziraphale reached down and took his hand in his own as he sat down.

The warm touch of soft skin against his cold-blooded fingers sent what felt like sparks of electricity up his arm. Crowley felt his unnecessary heart skip a beat and his brain seemed unable to process any thoughts beyond the sensation of the contact.

_Well, this is new,_ he thought as the bus began to move again and it became apparent that Aziraphale had no immediate plans of letting go.

Crowley hazarded a sideways glance at the angel. His posture was as impeccable as ever as he sat facing perfectly forward and his storm blue eyes had a faraway look in them, as if he were lost in thought.

Crowley slumped back into his seat, stretching his legs out so his knee bumped against Aziraphale’s. The angel seemed to snap out of his reverie and turned slightly to catch Crowley’s eye with just a hint of a reassuring smile.

Feeling emboldened, Crowley willed his hand to move and gave Aziraphale’s fingers a light squeeze. He felt the angel’s strong grip tighten slightly and he thought he saw just the tiniest bit of tension leave his friend’s body.

_Alright then,_ Crowley thought, relaxing against the seat and letting his eyes drift shut as the soothing warmth of the angel’s body permeated through him. _Maybe I’m not quite as bad off as I was this morning, then. M’not alone anymore. Now we’ve just got to figure out how to keep it this way._

* * *

[1] Why he was so attached to that worn-out, old sofa cushion of a waistcoat Crowley would never know, but he had to admit the thought of it disappearing from the angel’s ensemble felt horribly wrong.

[2] At least since they officially started counting days. Before that it was a bit hard to gauge.

[3] Not that he ever planned on telling anyone that he actually **knew** what the “J” stood for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets another turn next chapter. Enjoy your weekend everybody.

**Author's Note:**

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